


Source of Inspiration

by iamanidhwal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Art AU, Art Student AU, But its okay Will the bae to the rescue, Chilton is an art professor but is his egotistical self as usual, Friends to Lovers, Hannibal isn't a cannibal in this, Hannibal loses it for some time, Hannigram - Freeform, His sketchbook is filled with murders from S1 though, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suggestive of some things happening at the end, Will is a passive-aggressive shit when he gets jealous, age gap, mention of Abigail Hobbs, mention of Frank Froideveaux, mention of Hannibal/Alana, the nightmare stag, the stag - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4071868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art Student AU; The first time he saw Hannibal Lecter enter the classroom, he thought him being a student of the Fine Arts was a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Source of Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is my first time contributing to the Hannibal fandom, I hope it turned out fine! OTL
> 
> Loosely based on two prompts, both from otpauideas.tumblr.com
> 
> 1) You constantly draw creepy stuff and it's slightly concerning  
> 2) You're sitting next to me and drawing a naked person and I'm having a really hard time not explicitly staring
> 
> I hope this is good enough! Aaaa //quiet sobbing

* * *

The first time he saw Hannibal Lecter enter the classroom, he thought him being a student of the Fine Arts was a joke.

It was the first day of classes yet again in Baltimore Institute for Arts and Design. Perhaps it was beneath someone as Hannibal (or Dr. Lecter, as he had introduced himself at the teacher’s prompting) to attend a class for still-life drawing. However, on that day, in that class, he had ever-so-politely knocked on the door and bowed his head as he walked up to the only remaining seat available – the one right next to him.

Will remembered looking up as the sound of moving fabric reached his ears, then found a man older than him by at least 7 years or so, in a finely tailored three-piece suit that fit him like a glove. It was blue, he recalled, with a faint plaid pattern. The newcomer had taken off his coat and folded it neatly on his lap, as opposed to hanging it off the back of his chair. _Maybe it would damage the suit somewhat,_ Will added as an afterthought. The stranger had fair hair slicked back, high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and lips that looked as if they were made to curl upward in disgust of everything he deemed not on par with his expectations. However, when he noticed Will observing him, he smiled minutely, a little warmth seeping through.

“Good morning,” he greeted. English was the medium of conversation, but the way he said it made him rank above commonfolk. There was a touch of another, thicker language underlying the smoothness of his English, but Will couldn’t quite place it. “Rough start of the day?” he added, trying to make small talk.

“Uhm… yeah.” _Not really, this is just how I normally look,_ he wanted to snap, but deemed it as impolite. Looking down at himself, he could see why he’d be concerned – dark jeans with faded blots of paint, shoes that have been through normal wear and tear. A brown coat hanging behind the back of his chair, a plaid red flannel buttoned and tucked, perhaps the only ‘formal’ thing about his whole appearance, as compared to his seatmate. He must’ve looked tired – and that was what he was, at that time – with a paper cup of coffee bought from the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts, and dark circles under his eyes, hidden behind black-rimmed glasses. “No, just… My day started earlier than most.”

“Night terrors?”

Will had to raise his eyebrow at that. “What are you, a mind-reader?”

“Just a lucky guess,” he answered smoothly. “My main career, however, lies in psychology.”

“So, what, you’re psychoanalyzing me?”

“Merely stating what you show me.” He had a smug look on his face. “You’re quite the open book.”

“Is that a problem?” He asked, defensive all of a sudden.

“No, not at all. Well, not for me at least.”

Those dark eyes seemed to calculate what he was, as he was, sitting in front of the empty easel. Fortunately, the professor – a short, haughty man who introduced himself as Dr. Chilton – cleared his throat to gather the class’ attention.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Dr. Chilton, and I will be your professor for this class for the duration of the whole semester.” His whole body language screamed egotistical, narcissistic, but heavily veiled with an air of elegance and sophistication. It was almost masterfully done – almost. As though it was all fake, as though it was all to impress anyone and everyone around him. “I introduced myself, now it’s time to introduce yourselves. We’ll start at the front and we’ll make our way to the back.”

Everyone in the classroom audibly groaned. Will just sipped at his coffee, stopping only when his glasses fogged. He had to wipe the lenses with the edges of his coat. He could feel the man beside him stare, and raised an eyebrow before glancing at him.

“Don’t you find this all so… elementary?” The stranger mused, taking the raised eyebrow as an opening for more small talk. He was looking at the first student – a bright-eyed, dark-haired Abigail Hobbs – to introduce herself. There was a slight grimace to his face, as though he knew his feelings towards this whole activity were rude but he tried very hard to suppress it.

Will just shrugged. To be honest, he couldn’t care less. “What the professor says, goes. No matter how… _elementary_ it is.”

“Isn’t that what art students go to art school for, though? Break away from tradition, especially from normal educational systems that brainwash them into strictly exercising academics and not focus much on the finer aesthetics of life?”

Will paused, then had to laugh at that. “You’ve got a flowery mouth, Mister.”

“Please,” the other man said, smiling as well, “Call me Hannibal.”

“Will.”

They shook hands briefly. Will noted how easy Hannibal’s stance was, even though his grip was firm. His hands were larger than his, rougher – as though he does a lot of things with his hands. It would explain his air of self-confidence. The guy thrived in independence and solidarity, and he knew this very well.

 Will tried to distract himself with listening to the other students, which admittedly wasn’t so hard to do, especially when a heavyset man named Frank at the second row started to breakdown, saying there was a lion in the room. He turned to his seatmate once again. “What do you think, Hannibal? Hyperactive imagination?”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “You’re making me psychoanalyze people from a distance?”

“You didn’t have a problem doing that to me.”

“You’re a special case, Will.”

“I wonder why.”

Hannibal didn’t have a reply to that, and he merely crossed his legs and waited patiently for his turn. When he got called by Professor Chilton, he smiled and dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I am 35 years old, which perhaps makes me the oldest of my colleagues here in this classroom.” Some of the other students sniggered, but not rudely, just acknowledging his statement as fact. “My main profession lies in the field of psychology, and, before that, as a surgeon. Fine arts, however, has been a true passion of mine.”

“What urged you to be here, then, Dr. Lecter?” Professor Chilton asked, the first time he had wanted to know more of a person beyond their introduction. “Surely you haven’t given up your day job just for giggles?”

“I was actually encouraged by a colleague of mine after discovering I had drawn drafts of my own home and different scenery from my childhood in Lithuania and visits to other countries in Europe,” he replied, then looked at Will. “I must applaud her for guiding me in the right direction." Will didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but didn’t have the time to ask him for it. It was his turn next.

“My name is Will Graham. I am 26 years old.” He yawned mid-sentence and tried to laugh it off, to little success. “Sorry, rough night. I, uh, I mostly like to make art installations, but my works are smaller in scale and, perhaps, amateurish at best.”

Professor Chilton nodded and pressed on with the next person. Will sighed to himself in relief. A bullet dodged, so as not to explain his art installations to anybody.

Hannibal wasn’t as relenting as the professor, however.

“Art installations?” He was smiling, amused. “What kind?”

“I mostly center my artworks around a person, an object, an animal, for inspiration. It differs.”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully. “Interesting. And the most recent of your inspirations?”

Will smiled to himself, as an inside joke, as acknowledgment of what plagued him. The very source of his inspiration as of late was also the source of his night terrors. _Irony at its best._ In fact, itt had troubled him long enough for Will to give it a fitting nickname.

“The Stag.”

* * *

 

The next two weeks flew by like hours, and gradually he and Hannibal had grown close. However, the more Will learned about him, the more he seemed like an enigma. Will knew he had a taste for opera, and heavy tomes, almost all first-edition books. Hannibal described his psychiatrist office modestly, yet when Will had been invited there one time after classes, he couldn’t believe it was an office. It was two floors and spacious – the second floor being devoted to books.

It was all very _Hannibal,_ there was no other word to describe it – meticulous, perfectionist, ambitious, organized simply weren’t enough.

 Sometimes Will invited him over to his place, and sometimes Hannibal was the one to extend an offer to his home. Will could see, however, that the other man didn’t spend much time associating with people such like him – a social recluse, as some would describe Will, living comfortably in isolation. His farmhouse was warm enough, but the moment Hannibal stepped through the door on his first visit, his polite smile turned cold and the refined man had to suppress another grimace seeing numerous dogs of varying sizes, colors, and breeds bounding to him, tongues lolling and tails wagging.

“I never knew you were a dog person,” he finally commented, voice controlled, as he looked around in the kitchen. It was a far cry to his, what with all the clean, marble top counters and all the high tech he used to preserve and process the food. Will’s pantry was a desert compared to his, which was luxuriously stocked to the brim with meat, herbs, and fresh vegetables, supposedly handpicked.

Hannibal was wearing something more ‘casual’ for his style – merely slacks, a plain white button-down tucked into them, and a black coat that he had folded neatly on his arm. He still looked impeccable as ever. Will envied how easy he was on the eye.

“Why, because I’m pale and don’t have the vibe of someone who socializes, as what most dog owners are?” he asked, trying to lighten his mood. It was news to Will that Hannibal wasn’t the type to be fond of pets. It was amusing to watch him compose himself to be polite.

“Forgive me if my first impression was wrong,” he amended, dipping his head politely.

“No, it’s alright.” He sighed, taking off his glasses and blinking several times before putting them back on. “I pick them up as strays. They kind of just… stayed.”

“Surely that must pose some hygienic complications every once in a while?”

“I consider them family. I don’t half-ass their care.”

He saw Hannibal’s lip twitch downward at the slang, and felt smug. Will didn’t swear as much as other people in the class do, especially when they mess up a line or a very minute detail on canvas, but he does use the words sparingly. Hannibal, being the refined man he is, belonging in the higher echelons of society no doubt, naturally wouldn’t approve of such crass behaviour, much less associate with someone who displays said behaviour.

He started admonishing, as though Will was a child. To be honest, he expected this. “Will –“

“I’m sorry.” Will wasn’t, not really, and he knew the man half-glaring at him knew. But what was Hannibal to do about it? “You wanted to see my recent work?”

“I would be most happy to, yes.”

Will had to repress the urge to throw the garage door open to reveal the masterpiece he had been working on for almost a month now. To him, it was nothing special, but it was something to be proud of, an accomplishment that he had the right to boast about. The cracked, grey wall had been repainted to black, so as to see the piece better. It was best to see from afar, and he stopped Hannibal in his tracks, pointing at a marker he had painted weeks before to check on my progress. “It’s best seen from here.”

Hanging from the hooks on the ceiling were white strings, holding up countless white fly-fishing baits of different sizes and designs. Of course, all the hooks had been covered thickly with wax so as not to hurt Will while finishing with last touches to the piece. From up close it looked like a death trap, but from where they stood, the outline of a stag’s head, complete with piercing glare and stag horns majestically curling upwards, was clearly visible.

It took Hannibal a minute, but it felt like an hour, and Will had held his breath all that time. Finally, when he looked at him, his smile was still small, but Will could see pride, awe, respect in his eyes.

“This is beautiful.”

With only three words, Hannibal had filled Will’s heart full to bursting.

It was beautiful. Hannibal had said so.

“Thank you,” he said, breathless, and Hannibal lightly patted his shoulder, still staring at the installation. He didn’t seem to notice the big smile Will had, but that was okay. He didn’t need to know how much Will wanted to please him.

* * *

 

One night during dinner at his house, Hannibal had let slip in passing that he was pursuing a woman.

Will nearly choked on his forkful of rabbit, not because of its taste (it was exquisite, as expected from someone so meticulous like Hannibal) but because of the news. “You _what?”_

“Will, please do not sputter food on the table.” Hannibal frowned, pausing, his knife and fork poised on either side of the plate.

“I didn’t!”

“You were heaving like you were going to.”

Will just shook his head and drank the water from the glass given to him. He could see Hannibal’s mouth twitch again because apparently drinking anything in one gulp was rude, but he let it slide, since it helped Will clear his throat of any obstructions that could possibly ruin dinner.

Will didn’t know what feeling was dominating his mind at that time, but he knew it was a mix between jealousy and amusement. “So who’s the lucky girl?”

Hannibal picked up a forkful of rabbit with greens, taking his time to add some herbs to taste.  “The colleague of mine who had encouraged me to pursue art, a Miss Alana Bloom.”

“Is she pretty?”

“I must admit, she’s pleasing to the eyes, yes,” Hannibal admitted, smiling softly.

“So.” Will tried to sound as casual as he could, but his tense posture wasn’t lost to the man. Nor was the sudden sharp noise of his knife hitting the bottom of the plate all too forcefully. “Am I going to be the best man? I’d be very upset if I’m not.”

“You seem plenty upset already, Will.” He dabbed his napkin to the corner of his mouth before replying. “But no, I’m sorry. It’s not as though I prefer someone else to be my best man, not at all. It’s merely because I do not see myself marrying Miss Bloom.”

“Afraid of commitment?”

“More like Miss Bloom is not my type.”

Will could only stare. “Then why pursue someone you don’t like?”

“I feel like she’s compatible to me. We share the same line of work, plus she upholds her morals very strongly.” Hannibal paused, then looked far away. “But to say she’s the type I want to marry, I would have to say no.”

Despite the ugly hot thing rearing inside his belly to find out who this Alana Bloom was, Will merely nodded, feeling a bit satisfied that at least Hannibal didn’t feel love for this woman. “Good luck, then.”

* * *

 

A few days later, Hannibal was absent during Chilton’s class. Naturally, the professor had gone a bit ballistic yet smug (“talent being wasted”, he called Hannibal; Will had barely gotten through his class without throwing a can of paint t his head). It was the day they were supposed to spend drawing with a live model in the room. They had to draw them as they are, sitting or posing in the nude in the middle of the room while they furiously worked with their pencils or charcoal all around them. Hannibal was a meticulous artist, his hands producing smooth lines with little to no error be it on canvas or on paper. He was a perfectionist, which showed on his concentration on even the very minute details of what he was supposed to be working on. This was Hannibal’s playing field, and he had been absent.

Right after Professor Chilton dismissed the class, Will called his cellphone, only for his call to go to voicemail. Hannibal had told him that he never opened office this early, and he always answered anyone who called him, no matter what the social setting he was in.

Will drove to his house and immediately sensed something was wrong. All the curtains had been drawn up to cover the windows. Despite being the loner type, this wasn’t Hannibal’s usual behaviour.

Nor was leaving the door unlocked.

When he entered, the hall to the living room, to the kitchen, to the second floor landing, was a mess. A vase lay in pieces on the floor, its contents of soil and roots and plant strewn across the immaculate carpet. The coat rack was toppled, as was the umbrella stand. The kitchen and dining room was in no pristine state, either – half-finished dinner for two, the unmistakable shards of broken glass, seemingly thrown against the wall, all over the place.

“Hannibal?” Will hated how croaky his voice sounded, but worry gripped him harder than his insecurities did at the moment.

There was the unmistakeable swinging of a door shut upstairs, and he hurriedly took the stairs by two’s. There were thuds coming from Hannibal’s home library, and he didn’t want to upset the man any further with his rudeness.

“Hannibal, I’m coming in.”

There was no reply, and Will took it as an affirmative. Ever so slowly, he pushed the door open. “Hannibal?”

“Will.” He heard Hannibal speak, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. The library was a mess, as well – the glass table upended and broken, the throw pillows flung across the room. The desk looked to have been swept clean in a fit of rage. Contrast to this picture of loss of control, however, was Hannibal’s disembodied voice. “I didn’t expect you to visit at such an hour.”

“I was worried,” he admitted, taking small steps and looking around.

Finally, he saw him, huddled over on the alcove on the windowsill. The alcove was big enough for two people, full of throw pillows (the only ones seemingly undisturbed), and cushioned. Hannibal was huddled in a corner of the alcove, his usually slicked-back hair was now messed up, his button-down untucked and unbuttoned too low, showing skin and hair. He was barefoot, hugging one knee to his chest and looking out the window, seemingly lost in thought.

“There is no need to worry, Will, although I appreciate the gesture,” Hannibal tried to reassure him, but it fell flat.

Will sat down beside him, and Hannibal scooted back to give him more space. He saw that the older man wasn’t just hugging his knee to his chest. There was a black moleskin notebook that Will recognized was Hannibal’s personal sketchbook, in which he drew at times when they were out together. Hannibal would never show Will the contents, but he’d allude to it many times, as though teasing. That time, however, in the mess of Hannibal’s once-immaculate library, it wasn’t some treasured secret, but it served its master as a source of comfort, stability.

Will took off his shoes and pulled his legs up, so he was sitting cross-legged by the windowsill, facing Hannibal, who was still looking out the window. “So.”

Hannibal sighed audibly and closed his eyes. He looked much older than he was. “Forgive me, Will. I am not in my usual temperament today.”

“I can tell. Would it be too intrusive to ask what happened?”

“Alana and I were dining,” he recounted and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “She had asked me to show her some of my private works, and I… I showed her.” His face, usually a mask of impassiveness, now looked mortified. “Disgust. That’s what she had on her face. And then she started psychoanalyzing me, as if I was an object, as if I was criminally insane, that I needed help from a mental institution.”

Will winced internally as Hannibal took a shuddering breath. “I drove her out. Usually words do not affect me, but she had seen what I truly am, I trusted her with myself. To be rejected, and so forcefully…”

He wasn’t conscious of his actions until he saw his hand had placed itself on Hannibal’s arm. He looked up at Will, his eyes that had always looked powerful now somber with insecurity. Will’s thumb slowly traced small circles on his arm, feeling the fine hairs the color of his hair.

“Let me see.” It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t persuasion. It was asking for permission, as Will knew that Hannibal was in control, no matter what temperament he was in.

It came as a surprise, then, that Hannibal relented.

Will slowly inhaled as his hand stroked the pristine cover. Moleskin sketchbooks were much more expensive than most sketchbooks in most stores. He could see that it was well-loved by Hannibal, though, and well-used, since there were only a few blank pages left. He thumbed the book open and the cream pages were almost all filled with half-finished drafts. It was so unlike Hannibal to have them unfinished, as the dark strokes that mostly took the shape of the sketches in perspective were masterful, as was the shading, the detail, the perspective of the sketches. Will was so intrigued that he didn’t register the half-finished sketches until he leaned back to see the page as a whole.

The first pages were innocent enough, merely illustrations of scenery – in one page there was the sketch of a very big house with a forest out back. The detail on the number of windows, the shrubbery, was phenomenal. It was signed with Hannibal’s signature on the bottom right, as the other drawings were, with corresponding dates as to when it was finished. The drawing was finished five months before today. The next pages there were of scenery – a mountain overlooking a lake, the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, a cobblestone road marked with ‘Italy’ – the detail was amazing, and it was obvious Hannibal had been engrossed when he worked on these pages.

“Turn them over,” the man said, after some time, and I did.

The scenery gave way to bodies.

The sketches were more detailed, the shadings more apt, but these were the unfinished ones. The heads were only outlined, as were the legs most of the time, fading out only for the artist’s or the audience’s imagination to fill out the empty space. It came as no surprise to Will that Hannibal’s sketches were anatomically correct. But then, it had gotten stranger, to say the least. The bodies were drawn in suggestive positions, as well as twisted, bloodied, stabbed through skin and muscle and bone with arrows and knives and other sharp objects.      

Hannibal saw them and winced. “That’s where she –“

“She’s wrong.” It came out so forcefully, even Will was surprised. “These are works of art. Really, Hannibal, you’re not the only artist who has ever drawn something concerning death, and mutilation.”

After a few moments, Hannibal shifted on his seat, then smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

Will just looked up at him and offered a small smile in return, before looking back at the sketchbook. A lot of pages were concerning inventive ways to murder – there was one sketch of a body with its throat slit, exposing the vocal chords, and what looked like the neck of a cello pushed down its throat. There was another like that of an autopsied body, with the Y-incision and the neat stitches clearly outlined, but the body was sitting up from the metal gurney it was supposed to be lying on, eyes dead and unseeing, and only a strip of fabric hiding the body’s modesty.

What came next was what really made Will pause.

It was a stag’s antlers, carefully poised with a dark-haired naked female body impaled on it. It was as if it was a sacrifice to the gods above, proudly showing off the deed to the open fields and skies, and the stars seemed to twinkle in morbid amusement.

“A stag?” Will asked, tracing the outlines of the antlers.

Hannibal cleared his throat. “You can say that you inspired me.”

True to his word, the sketchbook showed that the next pages were all sketches of Will himself.

There was one where he was rubbing his glasses against his coat, eyes squinted and mouth in a pout. The next page showed Will in jeans and a coat, looking from over his shoulder with a surly expression. Another one was of Will sitting hunched over a proper mug instead of his paper cup when they had first met, which he identified was from when Hannibal had invited him over for dinner and it had rained, and Will had been offered a mug of tea while they waited for the rain to let up. The other sketches Will had little to no memory of, but everything clicked when he looked up to Hannibal, face now back to the immaculate mask he was used to seeing.

“All this time, you’ve been drawing me,” Will stated, as though it wasn’t obvious enough.

Hannibal smiled at that. “I’m glad you finally noticed.”

There was the last page, and Will didn’t know what to make of it. It was Will, standing proud, naked from the waist up, his curls a mess on his head, his eyes fierce, and his glasses being taken off by a slightly taller man behind him. It wasn’t finished yet, but the hair and the cheekbones, as well as the smile on the face of the taller man in the drawing was enough for him to identify who it was. Hannibal in the drawing had his arms protectively around Will, hands splayed across the stretch of skin, one on his chest and the other one on his stomach, dipping below the waistline. Will felt his mouth go dry, his heart rate increase.

“Hannibal –“ he didn’t know what he was going to say. Fortunately, his lame attempt to demand an explanation was lost when he felt the other man cup his face with both hands and cover his lips with his own.

Will briefly registered the tang of Hannibal’s favourite wine before he closed his eyes and slowly responded. The kiss was a slow exploration with their mouths, tiny steps into each other. Hannibal had sought entry with a gentle nip and suck to his lower lip, and Will had granted access with a small moan. Will had become pliant, and tasting Hannibal inside his mouth just made his brain to mush. He didn’t even notice his hands had buried themselves into the other man’s hair until Hannibal grunted and leaned back after Will had unconsciously tugged the short hairs on the back of his head. To be fair, though, Hannibal’s hands had wandered from his face down to his waist, pulling him flush against his body.

Will was panting; his lips felt like they were on fire, and he licked them to try and ease them. He saw Hannibal’s eyes track the movement, like a predator hungry for more.

“You missed Professor Chilton’s class,” Will whispered. _Stupid._ The one thing Will said after a breathtaking kiss, and it was about school.

Hannibal didn’t seem to mind, however. He hummed thoughtfully. “Indeed I have. Today was supposed to be the day for drawing with nude models, yes?”

Will nodded, still wondering if he had shattered the moment with his stupidity. Hannibal kept on talking.

“It seems as though I will have to submit my work to Professor Chilton late, but that’s not the biggest problem. The problem would be of finding a model.”

“Uh huh,” Will said absently.

“Will.” Hannibal sighed and shook him a bit. “Would you like to model for me?”

He looked up at the older man, no doubt a blush creeping into his cheeks and neck. “What?”

Hannibal smiled. “I would be honoured to have you.”

Will bit his lip, pretending to think, but his decision was made right after Hannibal had asked. “I’d very much like that, Hannibal.”

Hannibal hummed and kissed him again, starting to shrug off Will’s coat. “In the nude, remember?” he whispered when Will leaned back in surprise.

“You’re _not_ drawing me in this mess,” Will teased. “Clean up first, then you can undress me.”

Hannibal growled but relented, standing up to start haphazardly clearing the library of the mess he had made the previous night. Will found it amusing to see Hannibal so out of character, grumpy and impatient to clean the room. When everything was more or less arranged in the manner it was in yesterday, Hannibal had stalked back to Will.

“Now,” he mumbled, pushing Will gently down onto the pillows. “Where were we?”

Will only smiled in response, and started to unbutton his flannel. Hannibal kissed him, full of promise for them both in the next hours and days, while his hands busied themselves to help Will take his clothes off. 

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. This is actually my first oneshot I've written /and/ published that does /not/ end in tears. Wowowow I've grown so much *wipes away a tear


End file.
